


Boozy Blunders

by hirohamadugh



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: 5+1 Things, Alcohol, Asexual Aziraphale (Good Omens), Asexual Crowley (Good Omens), Asexual Relationship, Aziraphale and Crowley Through The Ages (Good Omens), Bedsharing, Canon Compliant, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff, Internal Conflict, Kissing, Love Confessions, M/M, Mild Angst, Missing Scene, No Sex, No Smut, Oblivious Aziraphale (Good Omens), Other, Social drinking, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, a little physical hurt/comfort, no beta we die in armageddon like men, rated for language
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-23
Updated: 2019-08-23
Packaged: 2020-09-25 00:57:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 14,957
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20368003
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hirohamadugh/pseuds/hirohamadugh
Summary: 5 times Aziraphale and Crowley kissed because they were drunk + 1 time they did sober.





	1. 2685 BC, Babylon

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Newts_Loki](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Newts_Loki/gifts).

Aziraphale wrinkled his nose as if exposed something dreadfully putrid, shuffling his right sandal free from the grips of overgrown marshgrass that twined its spindly fingers around just about anything they could grasp. The immediate result of flood season, he supposed, considering the civilization’s proximity to the delta which married the river Tigris to the Euphrates. But while this muddy reunion brought a wide variety of smells to assault any passerby’s nostrils (decaying botanical detritus, multiple fauna’s variety of fecal matter washing into the stream, and fermenting humidity the most notable)- the distinct scent of Hell was typically not among them.

In fact, the whole area seemed to be writhing in it. Malicious intent here, a dash of Cardinal Sin over there… It was all rather unsettling of an environment for a divine being to find himself within. Aziraphale twisted his golden ring around his pinky in wrought at the devilish feeling as it pinched and jabbed at his holy essence, averting his gaze towards the small group of people all huddled in an uncharacteristically social group about half a kilometer away. Better integrate himself, he supposed, lest he find himself trapped on an extension of his assignment here- especially given the circumstances being far worse than any of the Angels had originally thought. Freeing his other foot from the tangled grass blades as well, Aziraphale shuffled his way towards the small gathering, his cream-colored robe fluttering gently against the stones that threatened to make him fall to the ground (yet _miraculously_ never did).

“**_All Praise Siduri!_**” A commanding voice rallied in the crowd, shoving some concave clay bowl up into the air as the rest of the social circle erupted into hoots and hollers, most joining the first in throwing what they were holding to the sky as if reaching out to She Herself.

“_Hail Siduri!” _Was the general consensus back, before the bowls returned to chest height and were indulged in by many smiling faces, all clearly enjoying this social event and beginning to redden in the cheeks from too much time out here in the sun’s relentless rays.

“**_May She Ever bestow upon us her beloved gifts, as we were put upon this Very Earth for nothing but to indulge upon them! TO SIDURI!!_**” The man who had originally fired up the crowd was making another toast it seemed, this time leaping up onto an overturned basket to place himself higher than those cheering along as well. Aziraphale could finally see who was shouting so incredulously, a mere few meters away from the scene now. As he spoke, crimson locks wavered in front of his lips, bouncing excessively with his fluid and dramatic movements.

Ah, yes. He should’ve known it was Crawley from voice alone.

Crawley himself was rather enjoying things, and took another grandiose sip from his terracotta bowl before he was rather abruptly dragged by the robe down from the perch in which he stood: yet none of the Babylonians seemed to notice. “Oi, OI! WHADDYA THINKIN’-“ His hair flopped against his nose once more as he righted himself, blowing it at least somewhat out of the way. “’Ziraphale,” he commented with a scrunched brow, clutching the bowl protectively through his stumble and flicking out a forked tongue to lick the side of it where a bit of the contents had spilled over anyways. “What ‘n the name a’ Hell are you doing here?”

The blond exhaled pointedly through his nose, releasing his grip on Crawley’s apparel and crossing his arms much like a mother who’d just found their child misbehaving. “I suppose I should be asking you the same question,” he huffed, to which Crawley just tilted his head to.

“Creating false deities,” the serpent answered plainly, making a sweeping motion towards the people still celebrating behind them despite his absence. “Obviously. Now you,” he took a daring step forward and jabbed the angel’s corporation in the sternum, effectively breaking his holier-than-thou act and forcing his companion to have the decency to act appalled.

Aziraphale let out a small breath, in mild disbelief that the demon had so easily and willingly revealed to him what wiles he was performing in Hell’s favor, and then requesting to know what _he_ was here doing too, as if they weren’t enemies directly sent to compete with each other for influence over humankind. As if they were just having an afternoon jaunt.

And yet, for some reason, Aziraphale found himself unable to stop from being honest as well, so really, could he blame him?

“Word is that Luc… _he_ is going to make the future rulers of this land succumb to his side,” the angel began in a hushed tone, spinning his pinky ring once more. “I am here to attempt to influence them towards the Light. But it’s quite disturbing... I have a very uneasy feeling in my gut, you know. There’s… Something _Hellish_ about all of Babylonia, I’m afraid.”

Crawley cracked a crooked grin, one that was a bit too fang-ridden to be considered comforting. “Well tha’s probably jus’ me, Angel. Y’know. _Demon, being of Hell-”_

Aziraphale opens his mouth to explain… what, he’s not entirely sure. That it doesn’t feel like Crawley? That it feels… _Actually_ malicious? Those surely weren’t the right words, and Crawley would even probably take offence to it; of course he was evil and dangerous, he was a DEMON. But for some reason that he couldn’t place nor admit, Aziraphale never felt threatened around him.

“’nyways, take a sip ‘a this, it’ll help you take your mind off of it.” Crawley extended his gangly arms in offering of the bowl he’d been ceremoniously enjoying, but one sweeping look denoted the ceremony was definitively over. The group of humans had scattered in the timespan of their conversation, leaving only the angel and the demon alone on the outskirts of what would one day become one of the 2000’s (BC) largest cities. Aziraphale eyed the bowl warily, analyzing its contents of some porridge-textured foodstuff and a hollow tube sticking out of it. Sure sounded like a temptation to him…

“’ya use this to drink it,” Crawley explained, his slitted eyes half lidded as he shifted his hold to one hand and gingerly stirred the drink with the precursory straw with the other. “You can suck it up through this, ‘s less messy that way.” To demonstrate, Crawley brought the tube to his lips and wrapped them around it, taking a sip from the cup before extending it once more towards his mortal enemy.

… and who was Aziraphale to deprive a demon of what they did best?

Aziraphale accepted the cup, shutting his eyes in perhaps the shortest prayer of his life in effort to be forgiven should this be considered a sin. His fingertips shifted the weight of it out of Crawley’s hands and into his own, before sipping from the straw as Crawley had shown him to do. He let the thick drink sit on his palate, deliberately tasting it as he tended to do with all human sustenance, before swallowing and giving the demon a small flitting smile as he passed it back. “Delightful indulgence, Crawley.”

“I know,” he snickered, scrunching his nose mischievously as he took another gulp as well. “’s why I made a goddess for it for them. Siduri, the goddess of beer and wine!” He spoke rather farcically, his words turning rancid by the last few notes of the sentence. Aziraphale shot him a glare, but it only prodded his entertainment by the subject more. “Oh, don’t look at me like that, you big stick in the bank. It’s not like _I’m_ worshipping another deity I just… Created one for funsies. Lets people enjoy their lives a little more, where’s the sin in that?”

Aziraphale swiped the drink away once more, the tiniest of- dare Crawley say, a smirk- on his lips as he whirled around and incidentally forced the redhead to follow. “Perhaps you are the source of the evil stench after all, my dear,” he teased, clearly feeling better about the situation (which Crawley, politely, did not point out). The demon scraggily reached out to snatch his beloved drink back, but Aziraphale was faster, and kept it just out of reach as the angel took another taunting sip. Crawley pushed the dangling locks out of his face with a huff and lunged, but was only met with a quiet-but-hearty laugh from his opposition, who was so evasive that one could debate who was the snake out of the two of them after all.

“Ya sure you’re not jus’ sniffin’ your corporation’s body odor?” Crawley grumbled in a pout, quickly finding the drink handed back to him with no complaints. Aziraphale would never, as it turns out, resist a pout from him. Straightening his back, Crawley grappled at it clumsily and took another long sip. “A’int no reason we can’t share it, eh?” The demon proposed, handing it back.

Somehow, the liquid level of the beer never lowered. Perhaps it was a deeper mug than they had realized, or, perhaps it had something to do with the two occult entities enjoying it who were slowly but surely experiencing the effects of alcohol in large quantities for the first time.

“An’ its jus’,” Aziraphale started, slurring heavily as he jabbed himself in the cheek with the straw, a blatant missed attempt to get it into his mouth. “They’re _birds_, how come they get ‘ta swim in water?? They already conquered earth and air, whas next??? Are they fireproof too???”

Crawley was sitting on a pile of timber behind a Babylonian’s residence, staring and nodding along to Aziraphale words, entrapped with the level of intent as if he were speaking the only truths that mattered in the entire world. One especially vigorous nod sent that damned curl flying back across his limited vision for the umpteenth time that day, and apparently that is where infernal beings draw the line. Groaning loudly, he flicked the hair with a bit excessive amount of irritation for the crime it had done, muttering things about making the entire village bald so it could “cower as he destroyed all its brethren.” Aziraphale, who quite liked his blonde curls right where they were, thought on his feet in the only way his inebriated brain could puzzle together. He shoved the cup into Crawley’s threatening-to-snap hands and tilted the straw towards his mouth, redirecting the fuming behavior into angry slurping (which was a much more favorable outcome).

Breathing a small sigh of relief, Aziraphale slouched atop the timbers once more, swaying slightly as he spoke. “Whh, Why don’t you just tie it out of the way… Like you did when I saw ‘ya at the ark? In a cute little braid…”

Crawley hissed, glaring at the angel for his choice in adjectives. “It wassss _not_ cute.”

The angel’s prim smile said otherwise, as he simply leaned over and took another sip of the beer straight from Crawley’s hands. “The point of the question stands, still…” He declared, but was only answered by some uncharacteristically inaudible mumbling falling from the snake’s lips, his face darkening in what Aziraphale, if sober, would’ve relentlessly teased him for a blush.

“Hmmm?” The blond prodded on, straining to hear.

“I-I don’t know how to do a braid!” Crawley sputtered out, much in the same tone as when Aziraphale admitted to having given away the flaming sword at the Beginning. “I…” His voice grew so quiet, so ashamed, that Aziraphale had to lean closer to hear his words. “One of the little girls did it, she was chasing a boar and it got away, and then she ran up to me and was like ‘ugly man! Let me braid your hair!’ and clearly I only let her do it because she led with an insult and that’s the birth of an infernal will inside of a being so I had to nurture that-“

“My, my, Crawley,” Aziraphale giggled, a little bit of the thick beer dribbled on his lower lip as residue from the last sip he’d taken. It was driving Crawley _nuts_ to not clean it up. “I never pegged you as the kids type.” The blond stood when the demon did nothing but huff in return, standing in front of him now and leaning forward to gently grab the offending piece of his hair and begin nimbly weaving it into a 3-pronged braid, narrating his process the whole way to teach.

He got exactly 7 seconds into the explanation before Crawley stopped paying attention. I mean, how COULD HE when that blasted drop of beer was staring back at him, practically screaming _na na na boo boo! You can’t get me!_ Crawley tried to make the damned thing fall just by glaring at it, hoping sheer intimidation alone would bully it into cooperation. In fact, He didn’t even know _why_ this bothered him so much, but it took 19 more seconds before he’d reached his breaking point and just couldn’t take it any longer. He simply refused to let Aziraphale exist with this unaddressed for one more moment. Gripping the mug in his lap a little tighter, Crawley stretched his neck perhaps the slightest bit further than humanly possible, catching the little perpetrator between his lips and feather-softly drinking it in, cleaning Aziraphale’s mouth once more. Stunned by the sudden cut-off in the middle of his lecture, Aziraphale blinked his blue eyes down at Crawley, fingers still entwined in the demons long red locks.

“…Are you even listening?”

Crawley grinned, licking his own lips to make sure they, too, were free of beer. “Mmhm,” he lied, “something about three.”

Aziraphale huffed, dragging his fingers softly through the strand to undo his work and start over, otherwise unaffected by the interruption, thanks to the intoxication. “My dear, _do_ try to pay attention this time. First, you separate into 3 strands…”


	2. 276 AD, Ancient Egypt

Rotten idea, sand was.

During the Creation, Crowley had always thought teeny tiny particles of rocks in multiples of hundreds of millions was what anyone with half of a brain would consider a Bad Idea. And, he supposed, if angels* _did_ in fact have half a brain, he wouldn’t be buffeted by it right now as the wind whipped microscopic shards across his calves and knees.

*Most angels, that is. Not that he would ever admit that, as he preferred to make generalizations about the whole holy lot instead.

Gripping the tablet of stone closer to his chest, Crowley pulled his toga across his nose and mouth as the gusts became bolder, daring to skim the coarse grains along the skin of his cheeks. He took the opportunity to duck down an alley between two mud-and-papyrus homes as a reprieve from the sandstorm when it presented itself. Huffing out a small sigh of relief, the demon loosened his white-knuckle grip on the stone and carded lanky fingers through his short curls, cascading away any particles that had taken residence within them. “Eugh,” he scoffed, picking out a stubborn grain from beneath his pointer fingernail with his thumbnail. It was then, exactly, when he realized he was not alone in the tight space between the neighboring homes.

Shoving the dark frames further onto the bridge of his nose (great invention, they were, almost as grand as sand was horrid), Crowley hid the stone in one of the folds of his dress, flattening himself against the mud wall behind one of the family’s discarded old reed mat coverings that typically hung over doorways to keep pests and dust out. Peering around his safety blanket, Crowley strained to get a good look at who he was in company with; all it took was seeing one tuft of bleach blonde hair to know he was not in danger.

Slinking out from his hiding spot, Crowley knitted his eyebrows in confusion: Aziraphale was standing on an upturned basket, peering into one of the windows of the house on Crowley’s left. Last he’d checked, angels weren’t supposed to be the peeping tom type, and Crowley would be damned (again) before even thinking _Aziraphale_ would do such a thing.

Slithering up next to the angel, Crowley leaned against the wall on one arm in a suave manner, letting the dark glasses slip down just enough so he could stare over the rim. “Now, now, Angel,” he half-whispered in a taunting and sultry tone. “Invading privacy isn’t very _Holy_ of you…”

Aziraphale, as any right person would do when snuck up on amidst being focused, yelped and stumbled off of his balancing point. “_Crowley!_” He chastised in a hushed whisper, pink flushing across the bridge of his nose and cheeks as he brushed himself off. “You’re going to blow my cover, and then its going to be discovered we were snooping, and then its one slippery slope to discorporation!”

Crowley couldn’t help but roll his eyes with a snicker, because _that_ was a bit dramatic, if you asked him. “What ‘re ya doin’ snooping around in the first place, Angel? I… Well, I certainly didn’t expect to run into you here.”

Aziraphale dared to just barely peek into the house once more, huffing out in relief which must mean their cover was not, in fact, blown after all. “I’m performing a miracle, _obviously_.” He spoke as if Crowley had asked something incredulous and his actions were 100% within the societal norms. “This young alchemist is inventing an apparatus that will separate something from a mixture that can’t be physically filtered away. I believe he’s calling it _distillation_.”

The demon cocked one eyebrow up, perplexed on what Aziraphale’s interest in that sort of thing was, before the angel practically read his mind and continued on. “Oh, imagine the sorts of availability to clean water now, Crowley! It will be a marvelous invention indeed.” Clearly pleased with himself, Aziraphale straightened the strings hanging from the collar of his toga, refocusing his attention on the slate within Crowley’s grip, and jutted his chin out slightly in gesture towards it. “And what brings you here, you vile fiend?”

Crowley fumbled the stone he had held so preciously moments before over in his hands, biting his lower lip as he shifted his weight between his two feet. “I,” he began, flashing an almost _nervous_ smile before shoving the item towards Aziraphale’s chest. “I was sent to tempt a man into destroying this whole thing, but… Where’s tha’ fun in that, y’know? So I had him break it apart instead, took half ‘a the damn thing and broke it into three pieces, an’…” Aziraphale graciously took the tablet and examined it as Crowley did that thing where he rambles to try and avoid sounding un-demon-like. “’An I’m gonna scatter it! They call it the Rosetta stone. Suppos’ ta be some big thing about bridging the language barrier.” It sounded like he was trying to convince himself, not Aziraphale, that he was up to dubious deeds. “Really glad I found you here. Means I can _finally_ stop lugging this thing around.”

The blond man brushed his fingers along the grooves of it, a bit confused on it all. “You’re… Giving this to me?”

“Well- I- Yeah.” Crowley sputtered out, before shrugging his shoulders in a way that was a blatant attempt to show he thought nothing of it.

“…And who’s to say I’m not just going to go return it to where you spent so much time and effort stealing it from?” Aziraphale tore his eyes away from the script on the stone, now locking gazes with the familiar yellow eyes in challenge.

Crowley smirked, in that demonic I-know-something-you-don’t way, and teasingly skimmed his finger along the top of the slab. “Well… I suppose nothing is stopping you, of course. But oh, it would be so much _work_, and _God_ forbid… you get caught? The horror, perhaps you may even be _blamed_ for stealing it in the first place! Oh… After all, who else could keep a piece of literature so _pristine_ and safe as yourself, Angel…?”

Aziraphale quavered. He DID love literature, it was one of humans’ most beautiful creations. Crowley knew this. And what if he was right? What if the work wasn’t kept safe if returned? Hugging it closer to his chest and knocking Crowley’s tantalizing finger off, Aziraphale turned up his nose, choosing to rather change the subject. “Why were you surprised to see me? I often come to counteract whatever evil you do, I do not understand what is so shocking about my appearance.”

Oh, how drastic the gear shift was for Crowley to take himself out of tempt mode and into sincerity. “Eeeeeeeh, well,” Crowley wavered a hand through the air, as if he could pluck the words he was looking for right out of it and form a coherent sentence that way. “It’s just… Well, I know it’s been tough for ya ‘ta come around this side of the Mediterranean ever since… Y’know. Alexandria.” The demon tore his gaze away from the ground (when had he begun staring at his feet? What, like he cared?) and his eyes softened a bit upon seeing the guarded look on Aziraphale’s face. “I’m sorry you had to see that, back then you know. If I-“

“It wasn’t your fault, Crowley.” Aziraphale cut him off, his fingertips fluttering the demon’s to cease Crowley’s anxious wringing of his wrists. “I know that it wasn’t your fault.”

Before Crowley got the opportunity to do something he might regret, a hoot from inside drew both of their attentions back to the window at hand. “It works,” Aziraphale whispered, casting a sideways glance at the man-shaped-being beside him. Inside the muddy walls, the young alchemist ran out the front door, repeatedly shouting the name of what the two entities could only assume was his wife. Aziraphale hopped off of the perch they’d been balanced on to peer in, starting towards the street as well.

“Where are you going?!” Crowley hissed, his nostrils flaring and body coiling in a very serpentine manner.

“I want to see it! Don’t you?”

Crowley flexed his hand in feigned irritancy at the childlike behavior, groaning as he stomped behind the angel to keep up with the break-in. “You’re being_ ridiculous_, you’re going to get us caught, and THEN who’s on their way to discorporation-“ The demon stopped cold, abruptly cut off by the look on his favorite angel’s face. (Not that he like, liked him or anything. It was just that Aziraphale was more tolerable than the rest of the angels; not that that was a high bar to get over, but it was- ah, who was he kidding. He enjoyed spending time with him.)

It was then, he realized what that face was being made in response to. “Oh,” Crowley laughed, and I mean genuinely all-out laughed, from the bottom of his heart. “He was distilling _ALCOHOL?!_ You miracled him an extra strong booze!!”

“Shut it!” Aziraphale quipped back, performing an anti-Jesus and magically turning the alcohol back to newly fresh water. “Out! We must get out, before he returns!” He began to physically push at Crowley now, at least until his own two feet began to cooperate.

“You just wasted perfectly good liquor!” Crowley protested, swatting Aziraphale’s fretting hands off of him and crossing his arms.

“Oh, hush, you wino.” The angel turned on his heel and began down the small road, Crowley in tow. “I sent it to my home, a couple more minutes this direction, figured there was no use in allowing it to go to waste when we have almost a century of catching up to do anyways.” And it was with that statement that Aziraphale flashed one of Crowley’s favorite expressions of his: the cheeky smile that contained an amount of mischief that no angel should be able to achieve. A devilish smile, if he dared to describe it in that manner. Crowley himself shot one right back.

They arrived at Aziraphale’s mud house quickly as promised, and the blond pulled aside his reed-mat-door to invite the demon inside. As things turned out, distilled alcohol was an _excellent_ idea after all, and got you feeling rather hazy far faster than any weak beer or wine ever did these days. The two men were quickly reduced to two boys, giggling and snorting and accidentally turning into a snake and back (at least, on one’s behalf). The day became dusk, the sun itself even retreating from its position in the sky to call it a night, but the two ethereal beings shone on, now sprawled across any semi-flat surface in Aziraphale’s temporary home and badgering each other about who-knows-what.

“Ugh, lass decade they… they ha’ me reporT back up there fer’ some special meeting and you simply would not BELIEVE the… the… the CLOTHES they were! That they were wearing my dear boy, it was… It was COMPLETE tommyrot!”

“Tommyrot,” Crowley repeated with a snicker, stretching his freshly exposed wings laboriously as he drawled another sip of the liquor from his glass. “You sssssssound like tommyrot, wh’tever the Hell that even issssss.”

Aziraphale had the audacity to scoff, so (literally) ruffled by the insult that a few white downy feathers shook off of him. “It means!!! WONDEROUSLY ridiculous, how DARE you even assume that of my sensible fashion tastes!!!”

The demon giggled to himself in his pleasant inebriated state, placing the glass down on the floor beside him and sprawling onto his back with a huff. “Oh,” he began dramatically, allowing the back of his hand to fall across his forehead as he spoke, closing his eyes. “I can’t ev’n BEAR to look at you, with that FRIVOLOUSsssss dresssssssss…”

“I’ll show you frivolous!!” Aziraphale demanded, dropping his own drink to a nearby table and jumping to his feet. It was Crowley’s lack of reaction, however, that grabbed his attention.

An ever-so-quiet snore escaped the serpent’s lips, eliciting yet another childish gaggle of laughter from the angel’s throat. Asleep? That quickly? Now _that_ was tommyrot. Aziraphale wasn’t one much for sleeping, as he didn’t see the appeal, but he did know that Crowley loved the human necessity dearly. And he would be darned (keyword; not quite to the extent of damnation) if Crowley didn’t just look the most peaceful he’s ever been in this very moment. Limbs sprawled carelessly, wings stretched and draping onto the floor, head tilted at an unnatural angle and quiet snores falling out from between his lips. Upon seeing the dark glasses slipping off of his face, Aziraphale gently hooked his pinky around the rims and gingerly folded them up neatly beside him. There was something magnetic about it all, the demon snoozing here, looking so comfortable and at peace as he did. And Aziraphale just couldn’t resist- he leaned over to place a teeny tiny little kiss on his upturned nose- only the angel was a bit farther sloshed than he’d taken account for, and ended up smushing noses and capturing the creature of hell’s upper lip instead. Gasping and covering his mouth to hide the intoxicated giggle that followed, Aziraphale scampered off to the far side of the room, 100% confident in that he hadn’t woken Crowley in his 100% stealthy showcase of adoration he harbored for the being.

Crowley, however, did wake up from the motion, and waited until the angel’s footsteps had skittered off before scowling to himself. Stupid beings of love, he was a DEMON.

Deep down, however, Crowley didn’t mind one bit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And so, the piece Rosetta Stone was Aziraphale's very first 1st edition text.


	3. 1859 AD, Guadalajara, Mexico

“**_How does it feel to be stuck in the past, you bloodthirsty son of a bitch!_**”

Aziraphale winced as he took another half-hearted sip of the bleary tea he was tightly gripping onto for _some_ sort of energy, the words of some idiot drunkard picking a fight with a conservative piercing his eardrum and rattling his bones within. Morbid curiosity winning over the guilt of staying passive, the blond hoisted himself to his feet (but not without an involuntary groan) and over to the window where the noises of hand violence were now invading through. Maybe he could muster up just enough of what little he had left to perform a teeny miracle to-

“Oh no,” Aziraphale breathed out to himself, blood that he technically didn’t need running cold. _It’s my idiot drunkard._

The angel watched for the splittest of seconds as the conservative man kicked the instigator with a sense of finality, having already reduced him to curled on the ground and sputtering dirt that had weaseled its way into his lungs. “Down with La Reforma,” the victor seethed, spitting on his opponent before fleeing the scene, lest any armed liberals be around to punish him. Aziraphale’s mug shattered on the floor of his small rented home, the hands it had belonged to already shoving at the front door desperately as the angel moved with a speed he hadn’t been able to since he first came to Mexico.

Crumpled and struggling to breathe, the poor inebriated demon coughed out a tiny hack, trying (and failing) to get the world to stop spinning around him. He feebly reached out in the direction he thought his bag had tumbled to the ground in, slapping the ground helplessly in attempt to grapple at his only belongings when another hand was laid on his shoulder.

“**_DON’T TOUCH ME!_**” Crowley hissed, thrashing his battered body out of the grip and flashing his fangs instinctively in fear of receiving another beating. When the ground stopped swimming in front of his broken shades, Crowley managed to gather himself just enough to hiss menacingly: _“YOU!_”

Lunging in his very serpentine manner, Crowley tried to attack the angel. However, thanks to a mix of aches and alcohol influences, all he managed to do was throw his head into Aziraphale’s lap, who caught him with grace and tenderness he didn’t want. Ripping himself from the gentle grip, the demon did his best to shove the heel of his palm into Aziraphale’s chest, his head an unsettling morph between human and snake’s. “You’re here to bloody _help_ them, aren’t you?! You’re all probably the reason this damned war began in the first place, couldn’t fathom _freedom_ when your precious _churches_ were at stake…” The frames on his face may have been shattered, but Aziraphale felt that Crowley’s eyes themselves conveyed more brokenness than the remaining shards of tinted glass ever could. “So offended that the liberal party _dared _take over in the first place, your lot felt the need to do some smiting to teach them a lesson.”

Tears prickled the corners of the angel’s corporal eyes, and even at a few of his infinite ones hidden away from the mortal plane as well. Out of exhaustion, out of sympathy, and selfishly, out of the tone of disgust in which Crowley spoke to him. “I’m not,” the principality choked out, tentatively reaching out and brushing a matted strand of crimson hair out of his <strike>best friend</strike> mortal enemy’s face. His fingers shook vehemently, Aziraphale unable to exert the energy to perform such fine motor movements like making them stop anymore. He’d expended so much of himself already, day and night, performing miracle upon miracle upon miracle for weeks. He was tired. He was sad. Most importantly, he was here now. “They don’t know I’m here,” he admitted, the first time he’d done so openly. “Rather, I suppose they must by now, but Gabriel can take their complaints about what’s _frivolous_ and shove it up their ass.”

Crowley’s face shifted back to human, and a weakly smiling one at that. “That’s a bad word,” he exhaled in jest, winning himself the shortest of amused smiles and breathy half-laughs from Aziraphale before he continued to explain himself.

“I feel absolutely awful that the Church is one of the driving forces behind all of this despair…” Aziraphale stared at his knees where they met the ground, tearing his eye contact away from Crowley. “They’ve seen enough bloodshed recently, don’t you think? These poor people… Just 10 years ago there was that large bout where they lost all that land north of the Rio Grande. They lost so many lives at the hands of the States’, now this? It’s… It’s just…” He took a deep and rattling breath, clenching his jaw shut in a moment that was just long enough to make Crowley worry he’d stopped breathing. “I have, and will always, believe that Her place in Her creations’ lives is supposed to prosper love and brotherhood. Not… Not war and bloodshed. Not this.” He finally looked up once more, sweeping his gaze around them as if he were just realizing where they were. “It’s all been rather weighing heavily on me lately. I’ve been doing everything I can to help make these people’s lives easier, but it’s not enough. It’ll never be enough to repent everything some of Her children have caused here.”

The angel could feel thin and bony fingers gently grasp his own, and allowed the demon to twist his hand so his palm faced up and push a thickened bottle into it. **_1800 Tequila_**, the branded label on the bottle read, and Aziraphale sighed quietly. More than anything, he was grateful, because Crowley most certainly did not share his liquor with just anybody. Smiling softly to convey his thanks, the angel tucked the bottle under his arm, freeing his hands to assist in helping the demon off the ground. Crowley was half hobbling, half being carried as the two weary men stumbled back into the blond’s home, avoiding the shattered porcelain cup remains on the way. Aziraphale settled the redhead into the small bed the home had, Crowley wincing and hissing all the while as his bruises were aggravated. “You rest here, please,” Aziraphale spoke, but his voice betrayed him and showcased the sheer exasperation he was feeling. “I’m going to-“

Crowley’s hand shot out and gripped Aziraphale’s wrist with a sense of urgency before he really even knew what he was doing. “Stay,” he whispered, so softly it might’ve been just the rustle of dirt outside blowing in the slight breeze. “You need a break too,” Crowley said with more confidence this time, a feeble but mischievous smile playing across his cracked lips. “Have a drink,” he goaded, voice thick with underlying meaning he wasn’t brave enough to voice. “You know I hate being the only drunk one.”

Aziraphale leaned in ever so slightly, just enough to convey the hint of a smug bitchy attitude (Crowley’s personal _favorite_ of Aziraphale’s characteristics) as he made a small jab at his friend: “Amazing how you always seem to end up that way, then, hmm?” The angel may have teased, but when released, fetched himself and his comrade both glasses and poured them one each. He could never resist a temptation from the very best.

“Nah-ah-ah!” Crowley whined, and pointed wildly like a little child. “Make yer’s a double, that’s not fair! I already started!!!” And, as usual, Aziraphale complied, a snicker falling out of his lips at the behavior.

“An immortal toddler,” Aziraphale commented, throwing back the shot with the grace and ease of an extreme alcoholic. Which he supposed, had they been human, they would in fact be considered. “How… Pleasant.”

“Shut up,” Crowley quipped, pulling the blanket up to his chin as he began to make himself comfortable in Aziraphale’s rented bed which he was positive the angel hadn’t so much as breathed on. He swatted at the glass that had been poured for him in a cat-like manner, opting to take the bottle and take a swig straight from that instead, gagging a little as the tequila blazed along his already-raw-from-coughing throat.

Feeling his peripheral vision beginning to creep away from him after a few more gulps without anything between, Aziraphale collapsed into the chair he’d pulled over to indulge. “Annn-“ He scrunched his eyebrows together, fingers waggling in the air in attempt to summon the thought he was going to act upon before he lost it. “Oh!” Found it. “Meant ‘ta ask- y’know, back,” He waved the hand that was the Gesture Hand™ out towards the street, pursing his lips as he blew out a breath. “Whhhhhhhhh, what are you here for?? Hell tryina like, I don’t know, helly things, er what?”

Crowley had been quiet before Aziraphale spoke, just staring at the ceiling. The troubling part, however, was when he _stayed_ quiet. Asleep, maybe? The thread of hope Aziraphale was hanging onto that that was the case was snipped clean in half, not even having the decency to fray first, when the blond man heard the quietest of sniffles.

Oh no. Oh no oh no oh no oh NO, Aziraphale had thrown himself into drive and arrived instantaneously into PEAK PANIC mode. Demons don’t cry, demons _couldn’t _cry, **please** let it be that Crowley was not crying, because Aziraphale didn’t know if he could handle it, especially while drunk. “They’ve been through so much hurt recently,” Crowley squeaked, swallowing audibly and sending his adam’s apple bobbling up and down his throat. He dared to turn his head towards the angel, and Aziraphale could see the shine coating his golden eyes. “The whole world has,” he explained, “A-And there’s jus’ been so much manslaughter an’ death an’ who’s ta say this is it? Who’s ta’ say they’ll jus’ be civil wars, revolutionary wars, country-to-country wars, ‘Ziraphale?? I… It’s gonna happen if they c’ntinue like this; they’re gonna have a big one. A war of tha’ whole damned world.” His body sunk into the bed, nearly swallowed by it and making him seem smaller than he actually was. “An’ I…. I can’t even fathom it,” he admitted, “The amount‘a pain and suffering that would bring…” Crowley raised a fist to his eyes, squeezing them shut and rubbing them roughly to rid himself of un-demonly tears. It only made them puff up worse.

“I-I never really went ‘n for that sorta thing, y’know,” he shuttered a breath. “Inconveniences? Yeah, that’s all good and fun, causing drama is always a grand time, but killing people for fun, I-I c-can’t… I-I don’t… Jus’ tha thought…”

One of the tears escaped and began its mad dash across Crowley’s cheek, but was pinned beneath Aziraphale’s thumb as he caught it. “Shh,” the angel coaxed, blundering forward onto the bed with his elbows due to not having entire control over all his limbs right now. He helped the redhead sit up, as Crowley had worked himself into such a tizzy that he had begun to heave and hyperventilate. Brushing back the same matted hair that he had earlier and tucking it behind Crowley’s pointed ear, Aziraphale’s hand fretted down his spine until it reached the perfect center of the demon’s back, and began rubbing gently in attempt to prevent any puking that threatened to happen.

It was so nice. It was so kind. It was so… All the things a demon like him didn’t deserve. _Shouldn’t_ deserve. Ever. The things stolen from his life along with Her grace all that time ago. Recoiling a little at the thought, Aziraphale’s (quite literal) open arms only broke Crowley further. He cried out an open sob, the very first in the many millennia he’d been alive. He’d been sad before, but rarely wept, and _never_ sobbed. This was a new low. Sputtering out another wet cough, he opened himself for the first and ideally last time, if he could help it. “The world ‘s evil enough!” He cried, nearing yelling even though Aziraphale was right there. Crowley began to shake, burying his face in his hands as he broke into another fit of sobs. He felt Aziraphale’s arms wrap around him tightly, but it didn’t matter. But it did, at the same time. It was the most important thing in the damned world. “They’re evil enough,” he repeated, much quieter and more shakily this time. “Th-They don’t need a demon to help them, for Hell’s sake. They don’t need me.”

“I need you,” Aziraphale whispered without a beat of hesitation, before he really had thought about what he was saying. Crowley’s eyes met his in bewilderment, and Aziraphale reddened, slinking away a little and loosening his grip. “I-I mean,” he began to remedy, frightened by the fact the demon had stopped heaving and sat extremely still, eyes trained on him and him only. “Who else’s wiles would I thwart, after all, right?? That is the Great Plan, it’s Ineffable, as I always like to say, it is exactly as the Almighty ordained-“

In one fluid motion, Crowley had grabbed the angel’s cheeks with both hands and swept in to peck him on the lips, effectively silencing the nervous rambling. He wore a cocky and fanged smile as he returned to his upright position, dropping his fingers from the other’s face, which he was pleased to watch grow pinker and pinker. “I…” the demon began, smile faltering more into the “unsure” category as he felt his own ears flush. “I need you too…”

Peeking up and making eye contact with Aziraphale, Crowley decided he was a coward. Always has been, perhaps always will be, and the two of them will be tangled in this dance until all of eternity (or, at least until Armageddon, but they still had a few centuries until then, didn’t they?). “I need ya’ to shut up, that is!! … You talk too much. Hurts ma’ brain.” Crowley tossed his torso back into the mattress, trying the best he could to erase the feeling of nausea that had nothing to do with the tequila and everything to do with Aziraphale. Rolling away from the blond, Crowley pulled the covers up to his mouth, squeezing his wet eyes shut tightly. “’ve got a headache. ‘m goin ta bed. G’night.”

Aziraphale placed a hand on the mattress, feeling quite sober compared to a few minutes prior. “Of course. Rest well,” he said with a small smile, one he knew the demon couldn’t see. Crowley could clarify all he wanted, but Aziraphale had heard the true message loud and clear. Suddenly full of love and energy once more, Aziraphale chose to put them to good use and popped out to perform a couple of miracles here and there as Crowley slept. When he returned to the little home a few hours later, the bed was tidy and made, no evidence of any tears or any demon ever having been in it. But he knew. Aziraphale _knew_.

It was this very moment, this point in time that would sting Aziraphale so harshly only three years later in St. James’ Park, when Crowley asked for a way out. Asked for an escape from it all, after Aziraphale _told_ him he _needed_ him.

The two wouldn’t speak for nearly another century afterwards.


	4. 1945, London

Citizens shouts boomed through the entirety of London, twisting and winding down every narrow street like a cab driver with a hard out at 4. And for once, God bless us all, they weren’t the haunted echoes of screaming.

The people were cheering and storming the streets like herded animals, and why shouldn’t they? The war was over! The Nazis had finally surrendered; there was no more fear of attack. It was perhaps the biggest feeling of reprieve in Aziraphale’s heart since the 1200s, when he’d gotten a letter of commendation from Heaven for a job particularly well done. The war itself had been absolutely devastating for the poor angel, who ached and grieved deeply with everyone within a 30 km radius. That was the downfall of divine empathy: Aziraphale could physically _feel_ how entire communities of people were feeling, much like how a human could _feel_ a blizzard, a hurricane, or a tornado touching down right at their feet. For the past 6 years, all it had felt like was pain, horror, and mourning.

Today, it felt like grandiose celebration, mass overindulgence in alcohol, and the best kind of bad decisions. And oh, how he had needed a change, so who was Aziraphale abstain from partaking in the city-wide victory party?

He whooped with the people when the parade marched down the street, played with a little boy when he’d lost his parents in all the chaos, and graciously accepted any offered shared spirits- whether they be metaphysical spirits or the liquor kind. He liked both very much.

“Mr. Fell!” A blonde woman gasped, wrapping her arms around him in greeting. “Only took the end of the war to get you out of that bookshop, hmm?”

“Margaret, so nice to see you!” Aziraphale chimed back, kissing her rouge-dusted cheek as a familiar hello. “Oh, you know I do get out enough at LEAST to try your mother’s latest pastry delight!” The man grinned, fluttering a manicured hand over his dear acquaintance’s bicep. “Oh, do tell me she’s been well, I haven’t been over to Fareham in a dreadfully long while-“

Margaret giggled, perhaps a bit too high of a pith for it to be entirely sober. “Of course she’s alright, you worrywart, it’s been a week and a half!” She smiled and waved as a man she knew passed in the street, before turning back to the angel and pursing her lips. “Mr. Fell, you _are_ going to the Royal Celebration on the Thames tonight, aren’t you? It’s going to be the spectacle of the century: there will be fireworks, and the Royal Family themselves will be there! Oh, you must!”

Aziraphale smiled kindly at her once more, his mind admittedly wondering off to the woman’s mother’s absolutely magical bakewell pudding he hadn’t had in a tick. “We’ll see, dear, I’m not as young as I used to be after all!”

A young man scooped Margaret up in his arms before Aziraphale, and she laughed the purest laugh to reach Aziraphale’s ears in a long time. It intoxicated him even further; not only was he pleasantly buzzed from drinks, but he was positively _drunk_ on the happiness radiating all throughout London. It was enough to make any being of love like himself feel quite woozy. “Oh, I must be going!” She waved a gloved hand at Aziraphale, bidding him well. “So nice to see you!” Her words slipped out, barely reaching him as her and her friend were swallowed by the surging, cheering crowds. Another champagne cork soared into the sky nearby, and somehow Aziraphale found himself within the toasting group. _A Royal Celebration,_ he figured. _How delightful!_

This was precisely how Aziraphale found himself, a mere 5 hours later, crammed like a sardine just along the riverbank of the Thames by some wayward miracle. Teetering as the world spun dizzyingly below him, nearby parties bristling together and co-mingling until they became one, shoes sinking into the damp mud the closer to the water they got. All of the city seemed to be lining these waters at once, and the immense feelings of love and pride and comradery lapped at Aziraphale’s feet, his ankles, his thighs, threatening to submerge him whole and drown him in love. It was almost unbearable, almost too much of a good thing. Almost. Considering it was chasing years of depravation, Aziraphale didn’t mind much. But it did elicit a few stray happy tears now and then.

This was his home. Ever since he’d opened up the bookshop in 1800, Aziraphale truly felt like London was where he belonged. Sure, he’d pop over here, fly over there, bless someone down there, but he always- **always**\- returned here once more. Most likely, he always would. This was his city, these were his people; to see them all gather together, unified, by a common celebration of the end of hard times- well that was just the most marvelous feeling in the world.

The burly man to his right gripped Aziraphale’s shoulder, swaying heavily into his personal space but with the brightest smile across his lips. “**_GOD SAVE OUR GRACIOUS KING_**!” He screamed at the top of his lungs, listing away from Aziraphale once more as his voice crackled poorly over the attempted notes. It was then that the entirety of London burst into screams and tears once more, erupting in elation as the Royal Barge skated down the Thames, carrying the King, Queen, and their two daughters aboard it, all waving. “**_LONG LIVE OUR NOBLE KING_**!” the man continued, this time in company that was growing even more rapidly than the human population had nearly 6000 years ago at the dawn of it all. The riverbanks swelled with volume as everyone joined in, all swaying together as they sang the national anthem as one. Aziraphale even found himself partaking as well, throwing his head back as he shouted to the heavens in pure glee. Upon the song’s finale, the people of London began their hoots and hollers once more, all turning to each other and exemplifying _Love thy Neighbor_. Aziraphale was kissed by a young woman who he’d never met, as many other strangers nearby were also doing unto anybody they could get their hands on. The angel laughed, before being pulled by the lapels into a second celebratory kiss from another, allowing his divine love of all things to flow out of him as he respectfully drew back, a giggle bubbling from his lips. “I can’t believe-“ He began to speak, but the words did a nosedive off of his lips and crashed right into the mud beneath his feet, where they promptly died.

The second stranger who had accosted him was in fact no stranger at all. Crowley’s wide serpentine eyes bore into his own in disbelief at the sheer coincidence of it all, if it could be considered coincidental, and not fate’s doing, at all. The moment of recognition that passed between them was fleeting, before their lips were fitted together once again, much more fervently this time now that they knew the recipient. It was more than just a celebratory peck on the lips, no, Crowley’s fingers gripped at the curve of Aziraphale’s jaw in _I’m so happy it’s over, and that you’re still alive_ and Aziraphale exhaled warmly in _Oh, Crowley, it’s done, the horrendous thing the humans did is finally over and we made it out_. It was an exchange, a reaching out of angelic and demonic essences just barely daring to skim fingertips in sharing. Sharing regret, sharing elatedness, sharing love of all kinds. It was more raw than anything either of them had ever experienced, and if they were wise and never brought this up again sober, it would be more raw than anything after, too.

Drawing away after a moment that was too short, Crowley let out a large sigh, his breath assaulting Aziraphale’s nose with brandy and ash and the slight sour smell of venom.

“Aziraphale,” he said entirely too quiet for a human to hear, even as physically close as the angel was. But he heard him loud and clear.

Before Aziraphale could say anything regretful, a bright flash and an explosive boom commanded both of their attentions, and who could blame Aziraphale for instinctively recoiling from the sound, given the recent past? And who could blame Crowley for gathering the blond angel up in his lanky arms in reassurance?

“Fireworks,” the shorter of the men finally blurted out, a soft smile replacing any terror that had taken over his features. “Oh, it’s really finally over.”

The war was something that had been weighing heavily over the both of them, whether they admitted it (Aziraphale) or not (Crowley). Crowley’s fangs peeked out when he broke into a tiny smile, only able to nod in response.

“You’re not wearing your glasses,” Aziraphale commented, leaning into Crowley’s prolonged embrace ever so slightly. _Stop this!_ The voice in his head screamed, seething and searing at every point of contact where demon met angel. _He’s a DEMON!! _

“I’m not,” he confirmed, drawing his lips back into their characteristic flat line. “Thought they would impede the view.”

_ He’s probably the reason the bloody war began in the first place!! _

Wavering, Aziraphale gingerly pulled himself out of the tender hug, pointing to the sky. “You’re not even looking at the fireworks, Crowley!”

The demon only snickered in reply, shutting up for a good while as they enjoyed the pyrotechnics show together.

Once the last shell had been launched, the Royal family had returned to the Buckingham Palace, and the people began to try to go home. The only issue, of course, was that the tube wasn’t meant to hold ALL of London at once, and there was only one more scheduled for tonight, which left lines extending over a mile and exactly 0 hope of the two of them securing spots on it.

“Look,” Crowley swept out his arm in gesture, able to do that now that the crowds had thinned out enough to allot each person actual personal space. “Some ‘f em are jus’ settin’ up shop here. We should too.”

“We could just miracle ourselves home, you know,” Aziraphale crossed his arms as he spoke, raising an eyebrow in challenge. It’s not like they weren’t ethereal beings with magic powers or anything.

“An’ where’s tha fun in that?” Crowley tumbled to the ground and landed on his butt, giggling like a child. “C’mon, today’s been enough of a blessing. Do somethin’ entirely human fer once.”

The demon patted the grass beside him, inviting Aziraphale to join him there.

_ This is all a game, you MUSTN’T FALL FOR IT AZIRAPHALE!!_ The voice screeched, and deep down, he knew leaving Crowley here high and dry, miracling himself back to the safety of his little loft upstairs of his shop was the _right_ thing to do.

But oh, Aziraphale was never much good at doing the right thing, was he? After all, upon being stationed to guard Her garden, the first thing he did was give away his weapon.

Dropping down gracefully beside Crowley, Aziraphale briefly dared to consider cradling the long bony hand in his own where it laid so temptingly atop the tangled blades of grass, but ultimately thought better of it. _Tomorrow,_ he compromised with the voice, letting out a small sigh as he stared at the river to avoid thinking too hard about spending the night in the park with a creature of Hell. _Starting tomorrow, I’ll be more careful, I won’t let this happen again. But for now, what’s done is done, might as well indulge in this tonight._


	5. Three Days Before The End of The World

“Armageddon is days away,” Crowley grumbled out, absolutely collapsing into a meaningless heap of bones and flesh and demonic energy as he let what little of what he’d been holding together fall apart. His elbows hit the table with a heavy thud as the little wooden chair creaked under the demon’s weight, eyes burning in failure and dread and that little damned angelic skylight that allowed a beam of light into the bookshop that, on any other day, would be beautiful (and perfect for various botanical species to thrive in!). Today, all it did was mock Crowley.

He let out a sigh he hadn’t known he’d been keeping ensnared in his lungs, eyelids fluttering shut for the briefest of moments as his analytical mind ran through the facts once more. “And we’ve lost the antichrist.”

Aziraphale said nothing as he just gently placed two scotch glasses onto the table Crowley was leaning on, knowing his dear companion would like nothing more than a stiff drink at the moment. He peered up at the redhead, equally as stressed about the current condition, but better at hiding it. Crowley roughly rubbed his forehead with the hand he’d been resting his cheek on solemnly, frustration knitting its way into his eyebrows as they dipped down to hide beneath his circular rims. “Why did the powers of Hell have to drag me into this anyway?” He moaned, and Aziraphale poured his whiskey glass a little fuller than the normal amount.

“Well,” the angel began, his voice a bit more tense and biting than it usually was, as he refused to make eye contact. “Don’t quote me on this, but I’m pretty sure it’s because of all those memos you kept sending them,” Aziraphale’s eyebrows did their own furrowed quiver as he poured himself a drink, continuing. “Saying how _amazingly_ well you were doing.”

He set the drink in front of Crowley when he saw the demon had made no attempt to reach for it on his own, and Crowley sat back a bit, flailing his hand out in frustrated gesture as he stared directly at Aziraphale to deliver his retort. Glasses or no glasses, the effect was still piercing. “Is it my fault they never check up?” Without even needing to look, as if second nature (which it was) Crowley grabbed the glass, ever so slightly swirling the amber liquid inside as he huffed. “I’m to blame they never check up?!”

The demon gripped the glass a little harder, his fingertips growing pale under the pressure. He squeezed his eyes shut and allowed his serpentine jaw to slack just a bit, not wanting a fight with Aziraphale to be on his growing list-of-things-to-worry-about. “_Everyone_,” he said pointedly, making sure to include the angel on that statement, “stretches the truth a bit in memos to head office. You know that.”

“Yes,” Aziraphale agreed, but in that bitchy way that Crowley knew meant characteristic sass that he, if being truthful- respected, was coming. “But,” and there it was. “You told them you _invented_ the Spanish Inquisition.” He paused, and when Crowley had no retort but to run his pointer finger around the rim of his glass, continued. “And… Started the Second World War.” The angel knew nothing could be further from the truth: both of them had HATED the world wars, yet it _was_ something Crowley had still taken credit for in Hell’s books.

“… So, the humans beat me to it. That’s not my fault.” He pouted, looking very much like he had in the 1960’s when Aziraphale insisted he did not require a ride anywhere. And just like that, the witty comments and jabs were dropped.

Aziraphale stared blankly into his glass in silence, chewing on his tongue out of stress. _He’s from Hell,_ the voice in his head whispered, which had completely and utterly taken over everything Aziraphale did at this point. That voice was the pilot of his corporation now, telling him _this is too fast_ and _you shouldn’t have even considered raising a child with him_ and _you’ll Fall if you’re caught fraternizing like this, you shouldn’t have him here in your home._

Crowley began sniffing at the air wildly, and it pulled Aziraphale out of his thoughts and back into the present. “Something’s changed,” the lanky man all but whispered, his nose still scrunched as if being assaulted by an olfactory overload.

Aziraphale smiled just a little bit, pleased that someone noticed. “Oh!” He spoke as delightedly as he could in the moment, which was admittedly, still pretty full of dread. “It’s a new cologne,” he explained, “My barber suggested it.”

“No,-I- Not you!” Crowley basically bit off the back end of Aziraphale’s words, chasing them with his own. “I know what _you_ smell like!!” He grimaced, but Aziraphale’s face lit up a little in recognition. _Which it shouldn’t,_ the voice reminded, and then his cheeks fell back to where they should be. Following Crowley’s gaze out the window, Aziraphale allowed his eyes to wander in a paranoid way, as if the demon would be staring at someone watching them convene like this. “The Hell Hound has found its master.”

Aziraphale’s face lost all its color, his eyes seemingly sinking a little deeper into his skull and making the shadows around them more pronounced. “Are you sure?” He quavered, not entirely sure he wanted to know the answer.

“I felt it.” The demon broke from where he’d been frozen in place, finally turning his head to face the blond once more. “Would I lie to you?” He asked, as if it were the most incredulous thing in the world.

Aziraphale held onto his glass a little tighter at the weight of the question, grinding his teeth together before opting to just launch into his auto-generated response. “Well, obviously, you’re a demon.” He snapped his jaw shut when he saw how Crowley’s face fell ever so slightly at hearing that (_Which you shouldn’t care about_), and was quick to modify for clarity: “That’s what you do.”

“Well, I’m not lying.” Crowley said, with a potency that made it clear Aziraphale would not be questioning his sincerity any further. “The boy,” he sighed, sounding a bit deflated as he shook his head in denial, “wherever he is, has the dog.” Aziraphale swallowed thickly, and Crowley’s facial features softened into more of a sorrow than an irritated, his voice cracking accordingly with this adjustment. “He’s named it. It’s done. He’s coming into his power.” 

The taller of the two’s jaw dropped a little in disbelief, his lower lip shivering so small that if Aziraphale wasn’t so attuned to his behaviors, he wouldn’t have noticed. “We’re doomed.”

“Well, then…” Aziraphale glanced down at his hands, brushing his thumb comfortingly along the ridges and intricacies that were carved in the scotch glass. He pursed his lips, a little, taking a shuttering breath in as he mustered the courage to look up at Crowley once more, raising his eyebrows. “Welcome to the End Times.” He shakily raised his glass to his lips and took a long sip, nearly sputtering the burning liquid back out as the demon slammed a fist onto the table and leapt to his feet, beginning to pace.

“It didn’t have to be like this,” he mumbled gravelly, taking three steps towards the nearest bookshelf before doing a proper about-face and began feverishly stomping in that direction too, right past the table and up to the opposite wall, where he begun the process again. “If they had gotten a bloody _proper_ demon to do this shit, if I wasn’t the _only one left to keep tabs on this damn thing_, it could’ve worked. If they-augh!!” Pulling at his crimson hair, Crowley growled curses at every last demon crawling beneath their feet at this very moment, storming over to the table in a hurry and smashing his knuckles into the wood once more. He was leering over the angel now, hunched over so close that the tips of their noses nearly touched. Aziraphale stiffened appropriately for the sudden threatening position, and was so near that he could smell the whisky Crowley had just downed on his breath. It sent a shiver down his spine in what? Fear?

“Look at me.” Crowley barked, a hiss ready to fall off of his lips in pursuit of the sentence. “Do I look like the kind of demon who should be involved with _babies_?” The demon had his fangs on display now, ripping the glasses off his face and sending them skittering across the table carelessly. His pupils seemed even more slitted as he flicked his forked tongue in the air, trying his best to appear terrifying and unsuitable for child-related duties.

It was everything in Aziraphale’s power to bite his tongue and hold back from commenting on how Crowley couldn’t even **think** about a child getting hurt without becoming upset. How Crowley secretly **loved** children, or how he thought he was secretive about that. Aziraphale chose, instead, to just swallow harshly, breaking their intimate eye contact by finishing up his glass and setting it back down beside them as Crowley practically seethed into his ear. “There’s no use in worrying about all that now, is there?”

Crowley coiled back, looking like Aziraphale had just seared him across the face. “No use,” the redhead parroted, his voice hollow and dissociated before it roared back to life and leapt back into his throat. “**_NO USE?_**!” Crowley snarled down at Aziraphale, which made a prickle of sweat appear on the back of the angel’s neck. Surely Crowley wouldn’t _actually_ hurt him, right? “So you just **_WANT _**the world to end?!”

Aziraphale inched away as much of a reprieve as the chair would allow him to do so, putting his hands up in feigned surrender in attempt to cool the demon off. “N-No!” Aziraphale insisted, taking sudden interest in the woodworking of the desk off in the corner and away from those searching yellow eyes. “It’s just, we’re _inebriated_ and _spiraling_, and…” Aziraphale felt his throat close up, strangled by the voice once more. _Get away,_ it instructed, _Push him away and scold him for approaching you in such a manner. Kick him out. You don’t need him here, you can find the right boy on your own._

Clenching his jaw shut, Aziraphale’s eyes darkened as he told the voice to sod off. The world was fucking ending, they had wasted the last six years of their eternal existence ruining a child and giving him deep emotional conflict all for it to not even have BEEN the antichrist, so what did it matter anymore?

Crowley’s shoulders fell forward, his intimidating posture cascading down into something much more pitiful. “I’ve lost so much,” he whispered brokenly, eyes racing beneath his shut eyelids. Aziraphale’s body softened at the words, making the equally drastic shift from cowering from the demon to wanting nothing more than to hold him. Making eye contact once more, Crowley shook a little with a chill, shaking his head the tiniest bit. “I just can’t lose this too.”

_What did it matter anymore?_

Aziraphale reached up and cupped both of Crowley’s cheeks, a small but sickeningly sweet reassuring smile across his lips as he made the demon look at him, properly look at him. “You won’t,” Aziraphale said quietly, but with all the confidence in the world. He grazed his thumb across Crowley’s trembling lower lip, before standing up just enough to press his own lips to those shaky ones, feather-softly before gravity did its thing and pulled him away again. “**_We_** won’t, Crowley. It’ll be alright.”

Aziraphale’s heart drummed in his chest as he gathered up the lanky demon in his arms comfortingly, pulling his wings into the physical plane to wrap around his corporation as well in the embrace. Crowley instinctively did the same, burying himself into Aziraphale’s shoulder as they both jolted from the brushing of their feathers together.

“It’ll be alright,” Crowley repeated meekly, muffled by the angel’s waistcoat. He tightened his grip on the blond, nodding a little in affirmation of the statement. “I’ll make sure of it. No matter what, we’ll find somewhere to go.”

Aziraphale only hummed in reply, the voice in his head absolutely screeching from the tiny little box he’d thrown it into and locked away. Still audible, but not at all so commanding as it had been for over 50 years now.

_If this is wrong,_ he reasoned to himself, _If this is truly unacceptable, She will send me a sign. She understands._

It was, however, awfully rotten coincidence that Gabriel and Sandalphon showed up to his bookshop the very next morning. And the voice was allowed out of box and into the driver seat once more.


	6. The Very First Day of The Rest of Their Lives

Crowley always went fast.

In life, in styles, and most notably in his car. Crowley was notorious amongst the London PD for not only being the most reckless driver inside of the M25, but also for being the most evasive- none of them could seem to catch the flash bastard in the vintage Bentley. He was often seen careening around other motorists, even onto sidewalks on occasion, driving at speeds that most certainly should _not_ be reached on narrow inner-city streets; it was a miracle that he had yet to be plastered across the front page of the news for the worst accident of the century.

Today, however, the jet-black car puttered within 10mph of the speed limit, not even daring to leave the street’s asphalt at the first sight of brake lights like it normally would. Today it drove (almost) perfectly legal, winding down the streets connecting Piccadilly to Soho, scrupulously and safely carrying two eternal beings inside as they departed from their late lunch at The Ritz. The angel and demon had wasted hours at the restaurant, talking and toasting and bickering about who-created-what and which hole-in-the-wall café was the best in town. Just your average best-friends-who-left-everything-they’d-ever-known-and-witnessed-but-really-did-minimal-to-stop-armageddon things. Crowley eased onto the accelerator pedal as he turned down one of the streets he knew to be nearing A. Z. Fell & Co., the singular macaron Aziraphale had finally goaded him into consuming earlier that afternoon hardening into a rock in the pit of his stomach. _Damned sweets_, he figured, gripping his suddenly sweaty palms around the leather steering wheel tightly. Stomping on the brakes with all the abruptness his driving usually contained, Crowley flicked off the loud rock music, shoving the Bentley’s gear shift into park at the curb of the bookshop he knew oh so dearly. “Well, this is it,” the redhead grumbled, his intestines feeling sour. He gestured to the corner building to give Aziraphale the idea he was talking about the bookstore, but deep down, he was not.

The blond was quiet for a beat too long, his blue eyes staring wildly at the lankier man out of shock of the sudden stop after such a peaceful ride. “Well,” he started, and Crowley mapped out every crease’s movement as Aziraphale allowed a small hopeful smile to creep onto his face. “Won’t you come in? For a nightcap, perhaps? The golden hour sunlight is simply marvelous to watch through the stained glass, my dear, and I have a scrumptious Port from the early 1900s- I do believe it’s the one with notes of cinnamon and ginger you love so much.”

Oh, how lucky Heaven was that Aziraphale was no demon, because he was _excellent_ at temptation. But Crowley feared overstaying his welcome, and how long could he be with Aziraphale in one sitting before the angel grew tired of him, anyways? The two had been in exceedingly close contact the past few days, more than a couple of the earlier centuries combined. It’d be better if Crowley gently waded into an actual friendship, than to do a triple backflip somersault headfirst into the deep end. “’S okay, Angel, another night,” he said softly, and it took everything to swallow the lump in his throat when he noticed how those creases he’d been studying fell when Crowley turned the offer down. “It’s jus’, well, ‘M awfully tired, after today ‘n all.”

Aziraphale’s eyebrows scrunched upward and together, the motion widening his eyes just enough to allow a stray golden sunbeam to twinkle off of them. “You could rest here,” he said, and how could Crowley _ever_ say no to that face? “Your driving is atrocious enough, I cannot imagine how dreadful it would be sleepy as well. Perhaps it’s even best, for all of London’s sake.”

There it was. The bastard part. Crowley scrunched his nose, letting out a low hiss that had no real heat behind it. “I drove us perfectly safe here!” He insisted, before the angel cut off his huff with the tiniest roll of the eyes.

“Well. One safe ride amongst thousands doesn’t very much improve your rating.” Crowley caught a smile absolutely full of mischief and teasing as Aziraphale let himself out of the car, and the demon was quick to follow, slamming his door shut after stepping onto the sidewalk. He wanted to say something snarky in reply, he really did, but the words got caught in the quiet snicker falling from Aziraphale’s lips and suddenly forgot they were ever going to be spoken.

Snapping his fingers, Crowley unlatched the door and swung it open, a toothy grin worn on his face as he gestured his dear companion in. “After you.”

Aziraphale watched the demon stifle a yawn as he walked in the opened door, denoting he had not been bullshitting an excuse after all. He couldn’t blame him; so much had happened in the last 24 hours alone, plus the full feeling in his stomach- even _he_ was almost feeling sleepy, and he never slept. Crowley had haphazardly kicked off his shoes and shut the door behind himself as he slithered (as much as his legs would allow) towards the worn out spot on the loveseat in the back he’d most often occupied, fully prepared to sprawl in an uncoordinated manner and nap in the safety of what was known, what was expected.

Before his body could collapse onto the velvet cushion, however, a tender but firm grip found its way around Crowley’s wrist. Instinctively, the demon had reeled to wrench it out, before processing the only other person here was Aziraphale, who would never harm him. “Dear,” he said, shattering the silence as Crowley’s damned corporation’s heart began its 400m sprint. “You’ll be all stiff if you sleep there. Especially should it be over a week…” Aziraphale’s eyes tumbled down to where his fingers met Crowley’s wrist, and he loosened them a bit. Not retreating, per se, but rather having no sense of urgency since he now had Crowley’s attention. Turning back up to face the demon, Aziraphale beamed that pure, angelic smile, the one so beautiful it almost seared Crowley’s very existence. “Please, feel free to sleep upstairs. On a proper bed. You’ll be much more comfortable there!”

_ Too fast, you’re overstepping your boundaries, say no and rip your hand back and sleep on the couch like you always do!_ He was instructed by his own thoughts.

Smiling softer than a demon should, he nodded. “Sure, Angel.” Because after all, since when was he good at listening to instructions?

Crowley allowed Aziraphale to lead him up the narrow spiral stairwell, grateful for the reprieve of touch as he was sure Aziraphale would feel how quickly his pulse was had he kept his fingers there any longer. He followed the angel past a small kitchenette and living space (that was an utter _mess_) and into the small bedroom that had just enough room for Aziraphale’s queen-sized bed and 14 stacks of miscellaneous literature. Papers and novels were scattered across bedside tables and walls, making it almost difficult to walk. It also smelled like fancy soaps and that old-human-smell people usually associated with their grandparents, but God Herself be damned if Crowley could not stop himself from smiling since it was so unapologetically _Aziraphale_, all of it.

The angel in question was buzzing around the room like one of Beelzebub’s blasted flies around their forehead, fluffing pillows and smoothing out the duvet in a frantic manner as he fretted about making Crowley as comfortable as possible. “Do you prefer a stiff mattress? Is this enough pillows?! I think I have a few more in the closet, and if not, I can make some, oh this comforter is beginning to fray a bit, I can run out and purchase a new one if-“

Crowley placed his hand delicately on Aziraphale’s upper arm, silencing him. “Angel,” he mumbled, a grateful and tender look in his serpentine eyes, which were revealed as he’d ditched the sunglasses and tight clothes for a loose black QUEEN t-shirt that draped over his thin frame, and scarlet boxers with black apples on them. Aziraphale flustered, not having expected Crowley to change into sleep clothes already, sputtering as the demon just chuckled and pulled back the covers, climbing into the bed. “Even a rock would be comfortable right now. This is perfectly fine, thank you.”

The blond wrought out his hands, shuffling on his feet as he laced his fingers together over his stomach to keep them from moving too much. “Oh, Dear, is it comfortable? Do you need anything?? A glass of water, perhaps?? Anything I can get for you?”

Crowley rolled onto his back and shoved his arms behind his head in a lax manner, eyes half lidded as he looked at the being at the foot of the bed with a lopsided and fanged grin. “Well,” he tempted in jest, “I _am_ a being that seeks out heat, you know…”

Aziraphale, however, as much as he loved reading, would most likely never do so in between the lines. “Oh!” He exclaimed, hands leaping excitedly into the air before he scurried over to the closet and began to dig. “I have some absolutely lovely afghans! Oh, where did I put them… Ah!” He stood up once more and turned back to the serpent, but Crowley couldn’t even _see_ him behind the giant stack of scratchy old crocheted blankets. “Here they are, my dear!”

The redhead sat up a bit and threw his arms out in protest, eyes widening slightly as Aziraphale was perfectly ready to discorporate him by smothering of blankets. “No!” he cried out, before blinking rapidly to recover. “I-! I meant like, like a heat _source _Angel,” he chuckled awkwardly, but breathed out a sigh of relief when he saw the divine being drop the afghans on the floor rather than on him. He sucked it right back in when he saw that dreaded lit-up look on Aziraphale’s face.

“Oh! Silly me, yes, of course!!” Aziraphale’s eyes scoured the room, clearly still not having understood. “I have a space heater around here somewhere!! Oh, I use it in the winter, it’s most delightful to read in front of with a mug of cocoa, ooh!”

Crowley could only stare, dumbfounded, his jaw slack and falling open a little more than a normal human’s should. He’d been amazed by the angel before, sure, but _wow_. This was a new level of oblivion. Eventually he ripped himself from being frozen in place, thunking his head back against the headboard and pinching the bridge of his nose desperately. “Angel,” he seethed quietly, squeezing his eyes shut as he heard Aziraphale topple another tower of books as he searched the mess. “You’re making this _so_ hard, can you PLEASE just lie with me…” He bit his forked tongue as it betrayed him, eyes flashing open in genuine fear as he heard Aziraphale’s puttering cease all of a sudden.

Well, no use in trying to scramble it back now. “Please,” he broke, biggest fears culminating in the edges of his mind as the room flickered in imaginary flames, making the demon tremble. “Just… Just until I fall asleep,” Crowley pleaded, his voice feeble and lacking all the brash confidence it usually wore. His eyes made their way down to his hands where they picked at the fraying strings of the blanket, his long black fingernails excellent tools for tugging the thin threads. “I’m sorry for asking,” he babbled, trying to fill the silence when Aziraphale failed to respond. “I-It’s just… I guess I am becoming more human, seeking out these comforts aha… But with everything that happened I would just…”

Crowley was interrupted by Aziraphale gently taking his hand, replacing pale blue threads with warm soft fingers. The demon dared to look up, almost not believing his eyes as they witnessed Aziraphale climbing into the other half of the bed, in blue and white pinstripe pyjamas and a matching nightcap. “Of course, my dear snake,” the angel said with a bright smile, outshining the last of the sunset that crept through his dusty window. “It’s been a long day for me as well. Perhaps I may try this sleeping thing you seem to love so much, to understand what you adore about it.”

The lanky demon’s hand trembled around Aziraphale’s plush one, his face broken in disbelief and a rare, _rare_ moment of vulnerability. His golden eyes almost glowed, mouth pursing as if to form words that tangled and caught themselves in his throat instead. Sure, he’d known the weight of all the events in the past few days, but he’d blissfully not _felt_ it since they’d happened. He’d smiled and cheered to the world at lunch, snickered and teased Aziraphale as if nothing had happened, but it was now that the severity of it all hit him like a wall of bricks. He’d lost Aziraphale, gotten him back, almost lost him again, Satan popped up for a visit in the meanwhile, then tromped around Heaven while his dearest friend was trapped in the pits of hell, surrounded by the very thing that could harm him the most. It all just got a bit… Much, as Anathema would’ve put it, when Crowley thought back on the fact it _happened_.

Aziraphale brushed his thumb across the back of Crowley’s hand, chewing on the inside of his lip. “I was scared too,” he admitted knowingly, squeezing the trembling fingers in attempt to ease the panic.

“I never said that,” Crowley creaked out and flashed a fake smile to cover the truth, but the angel just chuckled at it.

“You didn’t have to,” he explained, breathing out heavily as if he’d also been whacked by the same wall Crowley had. “Truthfully, I was most scared right there, right at the end,” Aziraphale eased his grip off of Crowley’s hand, moving his hand back towards his own chest the tiniest bit, allowing their pinkies and ring fingers to still overlap. “When I saw you being dragged away by angels, gagged and handcuffed, while Uriel and Sandalphon ominously quoted The Sound of Music-“

Crowley snorted ever-so-quietly, his spirits lifted a little from the reassurance. “_Ominously quoted The Sound of Music_?” He teased, and earned the glare and huff he’d been looking to elicit with the comment.

“Yes!” Aziraphale blustered, curling his fingers around the sheets as he twitched his nose. “All I could do was hope our plan worked,” he continued, somber once more. “That was the scariest part, knowing I didn’t get to choose what could’ve been my last words to you, ever.”

“I could tell, I saw how you threw that strawberry lolly aside like it was nothing.” Crowley chuckled half-heartedly, swallowing in a rough way before he broke down and confessed as well, the façade ripping to shreds as he sniveled. “I was worried for you, too,” he spoke in a tiny voice, as if unsure they’d be overheard even though they were alone in the room. “Hell can be brutal, and if they… If you… If something… Happened, I don’t know what I would’ve done with myself for putting you in that scenario.”

Aziraphale turned more on his side to face Crowley, and the demon instinctively scooted into the opening between the angel’s arms. He’d been right: Aziraphale’s chest was in fact, an excellent heat source, a fine one any reptile would be very pleased to discover themselves upon. The angel felt the rattling breaths Crowley took and allowed his hands to rub the center of the redhead’s back, right where the base of his wings would be if they were in the physical plane. “I survived,” he whispered, a sense of grounding to his voice that Crowley latched onto. He could physically feel Aziraphale’s voice in the spot where his cheek met the angel’s chest, and took comfort in the sensation. “So you needn’t worry, my dear.”

The demon pulled himself back just enough so he and Aziraphale were eye to eye, and to where the angel could see the small smile on his face. “And I’m here,” he said in a mirroring way, “unfortunately having to listen to whatever you babble on about.” Crowley’s words completely contradicted the tone of adoration they were delivered in, gently twitching his hands that still lie on the wrinkled pyjama shirt. They fell into a comfortable silence, just for a moment, both shutting their eyes and drinking it in before Crowley broke it. “What would you have said?”

Aziraphale opened his eyes, feeling his dear friend’s palms rise and fall with each of his breaths. “What?”

“The last words,” Crowley looked at him, too, now. “You said you didn’t get to choose the last words you ever said to me. What would you have said? ‘See ya later, fangface?’” He hissed out another snicker, purely entertaining himself at thought. The warm feeling, however, was quickly cut up into teeny tiny pieces, then ran through a shredder for good measure, tossed into the fire and replaced by nothing but the chilling feeling of shock.

“I would’ve told you I loved you,” Aziraphale had said to garner that response. So easily, so simply, as if it were a completely normal and not a totally preposterous thing for an angel to say to a _DEMON_. Once he saw Crowley’s reaction, however, his face blistered up in cherry-red coloration as he blundered to rectify the scenario. “I-I mean, that’s-“

“What did you just say?” Crowley said, more clearly than he’d expected it to come out. His serpentine eyes were entirely trained on Aziraphale’s blue ones now, unblinking.

Sheepishly, the angel began to try to shift backwards and put some distance between them, but Crowley had an iron, white-knuckled grip on his pyjamas, keeping him from straying too far. “I… I said I would’ve told you I loved you, Crowley.”

Aziraphale searched for forgiveness in Crowley’s features, but terrifyingly only found bewilderment. “I-I’m sorry my dear, I didn’t mean-“

He was cut off by Crowley abruptly releasing his hold on the angel’s nightshirt, snaking his trembling hands upward until the ghosted Aziraphale’s cheeks, cupping them. The demon’s voice was reduced to a hoarse whisper, when he finally did speak. “Love?” he asked, almost scared as if Aziraphale would kick his legs right out from underneath him. “Love, as in… A-As in capital L? Not like… ‘Oh, I’m an angel, it is my Divine Purpose to l-love all things’…?”

The blond could see his reflection in Crowley’s glassy eyes, and felt the familiar puffiness of his own misting up, too. “Well,” Aziraphale said, and could palpably feel the lanky body coil on the bed beside him. “Yes, my Love. Capital L, I’m afraid.”

“I can’t believe it,” Crowley whispered, more to himself than anything else. The first tear escaped from his widened eyes, spattering warm and wet onto the pillow beneath him. “I never thought…” He placed his hands on Aziraphale’s face for real, letting his fingertips soak up every ridge and curve of the flesh his corporation provided him. “I-It’s just… I… Pardon if I’m in shock right now, Angel,” his breath hitched unevenly, shuttering out in an involuntary exhale. “I-I’ve just Loved you for a long time now, a-and… I never imagined…” He could see a small teardrop threatening to spill over Aziraphale’s beautifully round cheek, and used his scraggly thumb to gently wipe it away like Aziraphale had done for him many years ago, back in Mexico. Crowley pressed his body flush to the angel’s once more, bending his arms to gently bring his own forehead to his darling Aziraphale’s. “I just can’t believe it,” Crowley breathed, the hot air of the exhale ricocheting off of Aziraphale’s skin and returning back to his own.

The blond allowed his hands to settle at the nape of Crowley’s neck, staring directly into the dark expanse of the demon’s pupils, within which he could swear he saw hidden colors and constellations stolen from the night sky. “Well, I do,” he spoke truthfully, mouth curling upwards just the tiniest amount. “I’d rather like to prove it, if that’s okay, my dear.”

Crowley, unlike Aziraphale, was actually quite excellent at reading between the lines, and nodded in response to the angel. Aziraphale closed the gap between them and pressed his lips to the demon’s softly, lovingly, and through the physical connection opened up his heart and poured it directly into Crowley’s. And Crowley felt everything. He felt the yearning, the scolding of his own internal voice, the conflict his love had put himself in, the worry for Crowley anytime they were apart, the deep soul connection Crowley himself had always known was there. The platonic love, just as strong as the romantic, equally specified only for him and just as capital-L. The Love of all of Crowley’s little quirks, of their bickering, of their nights spent teasing and taunting and tempting and always, always being there, whether they knew it or not. Crowley shared his own Love for Aziraphale as he physically pushed back into the kiss, sharing poems of adoration he’d dropped into authors’ heads throughout history because he knew Aziraphale loved literature so much. Shared how he’d begun watching the Food Network in his Mayfair flat, just in case he ever got the opportunity to cook for Aziraphale and therefore create a physical piece of Love, that could be as whole and filling as what he felt when with him. He shared and shared and shared, all the times he’d Loved Aziraphale and wished he didn’t, all the times he feared what would happen if anybody found out. And Aziraphale shared and shared and shared right back, until there was no more left to mingle and all their collective feelings became one.

After an everlasting amount of time, Aziraphale drew his face back, just enough to edge some words in between their lips. “About time we did that sober,” he spoke breathlessly, which was followed by a hearty chuckle that, at this point, could not be differentiated who it originated from.

“Shut up,” Crowley muttered, pulling the angel’s jaw to chase the words with another kiss, bumping their noses together as he craned forward to capture it.

Perhaps, when two beings that were created as one and find each other once more, a miracle is bound to happen. But, for the second time in that day alone, a specific one occurred. For as they kissed, and said goodnight, A Nightingale Sang in Berkley Square.


End file.
